


Distraction

by odd_stick (KrakenAntlers)



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, M/M, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 22:11:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17475899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrakenAntlers/pseuds/odd_stick
Summary: Ratchet's been working too hard and Ironhide helps him relax.





	Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> **ORIGINALLY WRITTEN IN 2010 and posted on both ff.net and LJ**
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are owned by Hasbro and friends.
> 
> Prompt: Bayverse Ironhide/Ratchet, any rating, prompt – penchant for LJ@lady_katana4544 
> 
> Warnings: STICKY
> 
> A/N: This is AU after the 2007 movie. I didn’t like that the second movie implied that the Autobot’s only get a hangar to sit around in and that’s it. At the very least, Ratchet needs a med bay, so in this fic, he got one. Only he just got it. Unfortunately, it’s still horribly unorganized and too small, but he’s had to work with worse.

“Ratchet,” Ironhide growls as he locks the door behind him.

The CMO doesn’t even look up from the primitive computer screens he’s perusing, but Ironhide sees the way he rolls his shoulders minutely. Damned medic has worked his cables into knots again. The weapons specialist cycles air through his vents loudly, mimicking a human’s exasperated sigh.

Knowing that Ratchet will continue to ignore him like this, he wastes no more time on words and picks his way through the maze of boxes, tools, and spare parts on the floor. Mine fields are easier to traverse than this chaotic mess, but he eventually makes his way behind Ratchet’s impromptu chair.

Disregarding the text he can read over his shorter companion’s shoulder and the irritated grumbling, he sweeps his fingertips across warm plating. The light touches start at the apex where shoulder blades meet the base of the neck and smooth across the interwoven pieces of armor. Their plating is thick, but not dead to sensation, and Ratchet supports that claim when he shivers under the ministrations. The quiet fussing continues, but the medic doesn’t move away or tell him to stop.

Ironhide’s engine purrs deep in his chassis as his movements grow bolder. He smoothes ruffled and misaligned plating, shifting and adjusting them into their rightful places. His fingertips delve into seams and joints to knead too taught cables and wires. He knows he hits a good spot when Ratchet’s litany transforms into a happy chirr.

After a few more broad strokes of his palms over the chartreuse back plating, the weapons specialist’s hands snake around Ratchet’s middle and begin massaging the broad chassis and intricate abdominal plating. With the excuse of changing his angle and increasing his reach, he leans his own chassis against Ratchet’s back and rests his chin upon one shoulder.

He keeps up the content purring of his engine, knowing that the vibration will travel into the other Autobot’s frame. When he tilts his head just enough to nuzzle and nip at the vulnerable neck cables, Ratchet’s engine matches his own song.

The CMO finally gives up all pretenses of work, placing his hands on tops of Ironhide’s, not to hinder them, but to simply move with them. His helm falls back upon his partner’s shoulder and their optics meet. “I’m trying to work,” he murmurs even as he intertwines their fingers.

Ironhide huffs out a laugh, grinning wickedly when the movement and vibration draws a gasp from his lover. “You need a break. Workin’ yourself into stasis lock isn’t gonna to get us settled or get your new med bay organized any faster.”

Ratchet looks as if he’s going to argue, but Ironhide cuts him off with a kiss. It’s an old battle ground for them; glossa sparring until one gladly gives and invites the other in. It’s a fair and happy trade off though. Their lips part gradually and in intervals; Ironhide swiping his glossa along the parted lips appreciatively until he’s coaxed back into another full kiss.

Their hands are still dancing across Ratchet’s frame, chasing faint shivers that travel across the more sensitive sections. Ironhide doesn’t fight it when his hands are directed lower, but he stops the descent when they’re just above the closed interface panel. The broken and needy whine that reaches his audials makes him groan happily, pulling away from the kiss to bury his face in his lover’s neck.

“Fragging glitch,” Ratchet growls when Ironhide still won’t let their hands move.

The black mech revs his engine and the vibrations travel through both of them. “I know you like it. Open up and I might quit teasin’.”

When he hears the click and slide of the panel retracting, the weapons specialist clenches his fingers around Ratchet’s and drags their hands down. Working by touch and sensors alone, Ironhide guides their left hands to the already fully pressurized spike while their right hands glide further south, seeking the damp heat.

Ratchet’s hips jerk when their fingers grasp him in a feather light hold, starting at the root of his spike and slowly sliding towards the tip. Another static filled whine escapes the medic’s vocoder when the hold on him unexpectedly firms and drags back down his shaft. Steady up and down strokes distract him while Ironhide guides their right hands along the seam of Ratchet’s hip joint before finally encountering the outer rim of the already damp valve.

He circles their fingers around the delicate labial plating, barely dipping in to collect slick lubricant and spreading it around the opening. “Uuhn. Y-you’re teasing again,” Ratchet growls between pants.

Ironhide grins into the bared neck before nipping his way up to Ratchet’s mandible. “I dunno. You figure you’re ready yet?” he says into the nearest audial.

The chartreuse mech growls, turning and kissing furiously as he takes control and plunges two of their fingers into his quivering valve. He cries out in ecstasy, almost falling out of his seat as his hips shift to meet the thrusting digits. Their fingers slide in and out easily, gliding along his internal sensor nodes.

Ratchet keens quietly as he works their fingers deeper with each thrust. Ironhide moans, lavishing kisses wherever he can reach and relishing in the feel of his lover. He knows he’s judged it right when he sneaks another finger into the wet heat and the CMO cries out, valve walls contracting with each pump of energon through his lines.

“‘Hide…I’m c-close,” Ratchet manages between pants. The medic is still controlling the fingers in his valve and reluctantly slows the pace, but Ironhide still has say over the grip on his spike.

Following his lover’s lead, he grudgingly slows his vigorous tempo. “Whatcha got in mind?”

Ratchet cycles air through his vents, sighing, as he pulls their fingers from his valve and the hands from his spike. Ironhide can’t stop the small moue of disappointment that escapes him, and then scowls at the smirk on his partner’s face. The chartreuse mech staggers to his feet before pulling his chair further away from the desk. He turns to the taller mech and gestures towards the makeshift furniture.

Liking where this is going, Ironhide sits, legs spread to ease the pressure under his own still closed interface panel. Using the darker mech’s thigh for support, Ratchet reaches out and taps the panel lightly. “Open up,” he commands as he lowers himself to his knees.

“Yes sir,” he replies, following the order. He has just enough time to hiss at the open air hitting his newly exposed spike and valve before Ratchet slides the palm resting on his thigh forward. The chartreuse mech takes hold of the offered spike, letting his sensitive fingers reacquaint themselves with the feel of the familiar equipment before beginning to move.

With one hand occupied and the other stroking the plating along the dark mech’s inner thigh and hip joint, Ratchet bows his helm. Ironhide’s intakes stutter when Ratchet kisses his valve, but he has to grit his teeth to hold in the wanton scream that wants to escape when the medic tastes him with his glossa. Fist still pumping his partner’s spike, Ratchet slips his glossa in as deep as he can, swirling it around to tease every sensory node he can find. When he closes his lips on the trembling valve and sucks, Ironhide nearly bucks him off with a strangled cry.

The weapons specialist throws his head back, humming in pleasure as he strokes the helm of his lover. His vents are cycling heavily to ease the heat in his large frame and he knows that if Ratchet keeps this up, he won’t last much longer. The CMO knows it too and after one last suckle to the dripping port and stroke of the large spike, he pulls back. He smirks up at his partner, hands idly petting the black thighs.

“Will you be comfortable in the chair?” After catching his breath, Ironhide scoffs, but Ratchet has a ready retort, “We’re not as young as we used to be.”

“Bah, that hasn’t stopped us yet,” the taller mech says as he grabs the CMO’s arms and pulls him up. “C’mere.”

The chartreuse mech’s optics brighten as he rises. After Ironhide leisurely closes his legs, Ratchet situates himself so he’s straddling the dark hips, knees barely fitting on the outer edges of the chair’s seat. One of Ironhide’s hands support his lower back while the other gropes his aft.

Ratchet braces himself with a hand on the taller mech’s shoulder while the other takes hold of his partner’s spike. He eases down slowly, guiding the spike to his valve and they both sigh as he sinks down onto it. They are still for a moment; satisfied with basking in the feeling of being connected to one another. It doesn’t last long though as they both shift and a rhythm is created. Limited in how much movement he can provide, Ironhide shallowly thrusts his hips in time to Ratchet. The chartreuse mech starts slows, rising up until just the tip of his partner’s spike is still within him before easing back down at a tortuous pace.

Ironhide shifts, the hand on Ratchet’s back rising up to take hold of the CMO’s neck and pull him in for a kiss. The other hand slithers in between them, searching for and finding Ratchet’s spike. Their tempo quickly increases when Ironhide squeezes and begins to stroke the neglected piece of equipment.

They’re both getting close, hips jerking, vents cycling loudly, and kisses forgotten. Their lips touch, but panting breathes are being traded instead of dueling glossa. Ratchet’s movements grow erratically frantic before his systems freeze up and he cries out. His valve spasms around Ironhide’s spike, pulling the larger mech over the edge with a muffled grunt.

Ironhide thrusts up into his lover until the last of his overload is milked from him and Ratchet is left trembling in his arms, both of them overcome with euphoria. After rebooting his optics, Ironhide reluctantly releases the now overly sensitive spike in his hold. His gaze meets pale blue optics as he takes his time licking his hand clean. When he’s done he nuzzles in close and kisses the medic, earning a rough and rarely heard giggle for his trouble.

While Ironhide likes to think he could go another round so soon, he knows they don’t have the luxury of exhausting themselves with an evening of marathon overloads. He pats Ratchet’s lower back, signaling his readiness to move. The medic grunts as he lifts himself free of his partner’s spike, both slightly wincing when the overly sensitive equipment is stimulated again too soon.

The weapons specialist acts as a temporary crutch until Ratchet works the kinks out of his knees and hips and straightens to his full height. A smug smile takes up residence on the dark face as he watches the medic pull a swath of fabric from one of the closer boxes and wipe his frame clean before finally closing his interface panel. Ratchet looks up when the small hum of disappointment reaches his audials. “It’s not like you’re not going to see it again,” he sighs in exasperation.

Ironhide leans over and pulls the box closer, pulling a new piece of cloth out. As he cleans up his own frame, he replies, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it when it’s outta sight.” He grins when the medic huffs and flares his armor in embarrassment. He loves that he can still rile up the other Autobot after so long.

After standing and giving himself a last once over, Ironhide closes his own panel and smirks when he catches Ratchet watching him. He quickly reduces the space between them, bending down to steal another kiss before they move to leave the CMO’s newly broken in med bay. It was already late in their day when Ironhide had sought out his partner, and they both need to refuel and rest.

Ironhide holds the door open for Ratchet, a habit the medic had never been able to break him of, but easily forgave and secretly appreciated. Taking advantage of the opportunity, he leans close, trapping the larger mech in the doorway. In a rare show of a public display of affection, though no one else was in sight, Ratchet drags his fingers up Ironhide’s sides.

He looks up and their optics meet. “You’re really good at that.”

A chuckle escapes Ironhide. “Which part?”

Ratchet scowls, but doesn’t stop the gentle caresses. “Distracting me; making me relax.”

Ironhide smiles and dips down for a quick kiss before throwing an arm around his partner’s shoulders and guiding them down the hall. “It’s a gift.”


End file.
